


Effacée

by rusi (talkativeharmony)



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Polygamy, also a lot of ballet terms, and hamilton being a snarky pain in the ass, and lafayette being cute, cheesiness & corny writing awaits u inside folks step right up, feat. john laurens struggling to dance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkativeharmony/pseuds/rusi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Effacée: literally 'erased,' as in 'obscured;' a position where a dancer stands in such a way that his or her body is partially hidden from the audience. </p><p>In which our beloved John Laurens reluctantly manages to sign up for dance (and is implored to stay by the cute teacher and his French friend,) study law, and juggle activism all while his conservative father breathes down his neck from his big home in South Carolina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chaînés

**Author's Note:**

> chaînés: literally means 'chained.' a series of quick, consecutive 360 degree turns whilst moving in a straight line or a circle. the feet are tightly held together in first position demi-pointe.

It happened when he was twelve. _The incident._

There are a few basic things one needs to know when they fence: do not start until you hear “play” and stop when you hear “halt,” make light but firm hits, do not run with your weapon, and lastly, never give them your back.

The last one is the most imperative one—you may have good intentions, but your enemy may not.

He was nine; he was brash and irresponsible and had the debonair heedlessness that accompanied all youths. While he may not have done fencing out of his own volition, he did it solely because he wanted to impress his father; he felt his eyes on him every second, narrowed and calculating and lips pulled taut like he was ready to reprimand at any moment.

Ready to _judge_.

Which is why when John received praise he drank in every word, eager to learn and impress. As a result, he became a bit of a quick study. Fencing was like _dancing_ in the way that it was fluid and moved much like water, but your stance was solid like tree-bark.

His mother did not agree with entering John into such a dangerous sport at a young age, and although she would often show her disapproval when he came to her with bruises lining his shoulders and his knees, she always put down what she was doing, tended to his injuries with ice and some ice cream (but his father wasn’t allowed to know that) and sent him off with a quick kiss to his forehead and a hand ruffling his hair.

John advanced quickly in fencing—even found some enjoyment in it, but perhaps that was derived from the fact it was the only way he could gain his father’s approval. From a young age, he explained, starry-eyed, how he wished to become a police officer; he was oddly engrossed in the environment around him and was well-aware of the inequality going on in the world. As such, he was burdened by the weight of the problems that he wanted to fix. His father, leaning far towards the right rather than the left, had an air of disgust about him when John talked about it, and encouraged him to practice law instead, dismissing away any notions of becoming part of the police force.

And when John had reached that “rebellion” stage as some called it, he began to develop an extreme dislike of it solely because his father wanted him to do it. It didn’t help that he had injured his right shoulder repeatedly, enough times to warrant a warning from his doctor about overusing it.

_But the incident._

At the cusp of his twelfth birthday, John signed up for sabre fencing. It’s more severe than fencing with a foil, and many novices tend to get carried away with the _ferocity_ behind their hits. He had been practicing with a boy two years his senior and who overpowered John in _almost_ every way—in his height and his weight, but not with his skill.

The beginnings of the practice followed typical protocol. John saluted his opponent and his coach, put on his mask, and the match advanced as usual. It had been slightly rainy that day, and he had just arrived from an after school club and he remembers struggling to close the umbrella at the entrance until his father grabbed it from his hands and shut it for him and shook it out like a wet dog, to which John skulked inside the building shamefacedly.

He recalled thinking about his science project, which is why he is at fault for _the incident._ It’s here where time plays in slow motion and blurs out of focus; drawing into fifth position, he extends his arm upwards so his sabre is horizontal to his body, and as the seconds turn into eternities, the memory cuts off and all he feel after that is an unfathomable pain slamming into his skull like a gavel, and his nose squished up against his mask. His ears rung and he grappled for the handle of his sabre, struggling to get to his feet, overcome with a sudden _lethargy_ that weighed like lead on his bones. John griped for some sort of bearings on his surroundings, and all he could think was _it hurts but what does my father think?_

With every pulse of his heartbeat, his head throbbed, _this pain can’t be surmounted this time,_ but it kept getting _worse and worse_ until John thought his head would split open and, following it, so would his body. But the thought of his father pushed him to continue, even though his instincts were _screaming_ that something very important in his body had been knocked terribly out of whack _,_ if his dizziness and vertigo weren’t alarming enough. He hastily rushed to continue and finish the match, and he barely remembered to salute, and when he finished, he stumbled back to his father, nausea and exhaustion overtaking his body in wide arcs. It felt like his bones would crumble beneath his weight.

What follows that is a series of cut, short segments of one memory: driving home, his mother in the kitchen then his mother in front of him and saying something about his eyes, something about them was _wrong_ but he can’t remember what, and then he closed his eyes and when he opened them, there was a strong smell of antiseptic and somebody was shining a light in his eyes. Something something _intracranial bleeding_ something something _brain_ but John was just so _tired_ and he wanted them to all go away so he could curl up under a heating blanket and go to bed. He stayed in the hospital for a few weeks as they monitored him closely, and for the entire time, his mind was on his mother and how he wished it was her taking care of him instead of some doctors he hardly knew. His parents visited him religiously, of course, but when they were gone and he was stuck watching tennis matches that he couldn’t bring himself to care about.

 

Eventually, after a multitude of whirring machines, counting the tiles on the dirty floor in the evenings and tons of nurses inserting and removing IV tubes in the crook of his elbow, he was allowed to be discharged and return to routine life with some medications to the side. He was told he may suffer later on in life from his injury, but John just shrugged, his mom winced, and his father only sent him a passing glance.

As the days came and went, his father gradually resumed to pressuring him about rejoining fencing. And every time, without a doubt, he answered with a strict no. Just the idea of a sabre had the pounding headache return to his temples where he was hit, and after many arguments, his father began to pester him all the time--when he was tired, when he was trudging through homework; a time where John may be more susceptible to giving into his demands and the constant pressure. And one day, he realized something: no matter how many times he declined or refused, it seemed his father was destined to control every aspect of his life until death do them apart.

And when his father asked again, he acquiesced.

▆▆▆

Dancing isn't his strong suit, really. John prefers to hide behind the shield of words—a dance on its own; artfully constructing words into an argument that demolishes can be just as challenging as contriving a choreography down to the movements of fingers—and dedicate his time to actively fighting the inequality around him. (Proudly, he was the leader of his debate team for the entirety of high school.) And when he's not doing that, then he's most likely reading or retreating to his studies. His father had coerced him into fencing when he was younger, and he had hated it and learned to loathe anything that dealt with physical activity. Dancing is no exception. He's quite clumsy with his feet, and what dancing he _has_ done... it had been accompanied with absolute mortification and embarrassment, and so John learned to conflate dancing with "a couple minutes of absolute dread and misery."

(He felt the same way with physical education in high school.)

And as if his father's lingering presence wasn't enough, he had to induce him into chasing after women even after half-heartedly hinting at his odd lack of attraction to females, but if he dared suggest he was anything but straight, he didn't know what his father would do. Hell, for all his father knew, he was still undertaking law in America. And humans tended to avoid the unknown. So John played the role so well some days he had managed to convince himself that he was normal just like everyone else.

... Yet as all things do, that would change the moment he walked into that dancing school.

How had he ended up doing something that he absolutely hated?

By being _pressured_ into it, of course.

You see, John is a bit of a worrier. About school, about life, about the future—it’s something he can’t really help, and it causes a lot of problems in his life because of it. Namely insomnia and depression, and it’s hard to go about your life when these things cripple you at every fork in the road. So he had done something that was completely, utterly out of his comfort zone—

\--he sought help.

And that help included just talking to a doctor once a week, dietary changes, and trying to release stress through physical activity. Sports was definitely out of the question, which left one thing— _dancing_.

So as a brief note: John is completely against doing this in first place. But if it will help, then he doesn’t really have a choice, does he?

Which is how he winds up getting out of his car in front of some building he had never really noticed that was tucked on the corner of the main street, amidst its partners of colonial houses that housed businesses ranging from dentistry to the library. It’s easy to miss it, but it’s helpful that it’s just a few blocks from the library, so he can go straight from the library to this place and vice versa. It’s windy today, and cumulous clouds are dotted lazily in the blue sky.

It was a tiny little thing—a private business no doubt, just like the others, and John felt like all eyes were on him and that he was wearing some alien skin by the way people were staring at him. _A new face_. That's right. It all mattered how he carried and presented himself—if he did it wrong, then these people will pass judgment on him already when he hadn't even uttered a word.

And his first words when he walked into this little building happened to be " _oh, shit_."

While his father would be chastising him for using such vulgar profanities in front of young children, John was more occupied by the fact that he was here for the wrong class. _Of course_. Here only for two minutes and here he is, making an absolute dumbass of himself. Speechless and unsure of what to do, he rocked on his heels and put on a facade of certainty and approached the clerk at the desk, his neck burning with all the stares. Waiting for him to say something.

(Waiting to _judge_.)

"When's the, uh, when's the beginners contemporary class?"

And just like that, time resumes, and everyone turns away, eyes averting to their phones, magazines, books. The tension unwinds in his shoulders with a single exhale, and he reluctantly curls his toes in his shoes.

"Twelve-thirty, sir; you're a bit early." The clerk, whose name he presumes to be Miss Downie (if the golden plaque with the name engraved on it was anything to judge by) and who performs each keystroke with utmost precision and perfection that seems to cut through the silence like a bullet, has a clear voice with a sharp London accent. Unsettled, he swallows.

"Okay, thanks. Miss Downie." He offers her a smile. She abruptly presses the enter button and John rolls his eyes.

He receives a glare for that, and he skulks to the backroom where all the other dancers were, and mercifully it is empty. However, a single person obstructs his path to the room, someone who Laurens regards with minor vexation and curiosity, causing him to stop.

He looks to be his age. Not familiar, though.

One elbow hanging off his knee and his other leg stretched out, he is pressed against the wall and furiously scribbling something in a bright crimson binder. Occasionally he'll pause, then go back to writing. _He has a little habit of biting his tongue between his teeth when he thinks,_ he notices.

When the stranger looks up, he notices John, and for a moment his heart catapults to the back of his throat and his mouth goes dry. Something about his appearance absolutely enamors him; perhaps it's his freckles or his red hair pulled back into a messy, lopsided ponytail or perhaps it's the way he smiles at him--a tight-lipped smile that said " _I don't like greeting people but it would be rude to just glare at you._ "

All at once, coupled with his smile and their share of eye contact, he turns back and curls his knees to his chest so John may pass, his writing paused. He wonders what it is he's writing, if it could any way correlate to the things he likes to write, but he says nothing, and instead walks by, and into the room in the back.

_This is an odd little place._

Pulling his laptop out of his bag, he feels less anxious when he's not surrounded by nameless strangers, and he resumes what he had been writing before he left—his research paper on racial inequality in America. It isn't due for another two weeks, and the grade is weighted heavily, so he doesn't hasten to get started.

Submerged in his own little routine—researching, writing notes on index cards and organizing them by color—he fails to notice as time crawls by in a snarl, and in the corner of his vision, he notices the other teen getting to his feet and entering the room silently. The way he walks is elegant, graceful, but also _powerful_. He executes each movement with familiarity, almost suggesting that his mind is on other things and his hands are working off of muscle memory. Unlike last time, he doesn't acknowledge him, and instead slips into some socks that he rolls up to his heels, leaving the skin of his heels exposed.

Then he drops his stuff on the bench and leaves. John can't help but feel a little vexed.

With a tentative glance to the time at the corner of his screen, he realizes it's time to shut his laptop and face this. It's only an hour. How bad can it be? He should enter with a positive attitude and all that. But in truth, John was a rather realistic (read: pessimistic) person, and with his past experiences as any guidance, he knows that he will loathe every second just as he loathes gym class.

And to his shock, who is it but the man of the hour himself: guy with the red hair ... and small nose? That's what he notices about him, anyway. He's in the middle, mumbling some French words and going over a few dance moves. Upon entering the room, he notices some other girls stretching in the corner and he can't help but _groan._ Inwardly. He can't be the only guy with him, can he?

Nope, it's time to step out, go back to writing, and drop this class because he really, really doesn't want to do this. He's going to embarrass himself just as he had done when he was fencing all those years ago when he was little. In fact, he's even feeling a little nauseated, because he's so against doing thi—

And then, he realizes something that is very imperative to the situation: _he’s_ the teacher. As in, the guy. _I.e_ , this is going to be more torturous than he thought.

"You're the teacher?" asks Laurens in shock before he can stop himself.

The kid strides over and shuts the door. "Yes," he says mildly. "Is there a problem?"

"No. Not at all. No problem. Apologies." He hadn't meant to offend. He just thought the teachers would be all adults.

Just as he shuts the door, another stranger dramatically makes his entrance—young and baby-faced with gleaming blue eyes. "I'm not late, am I?"

And he also sounded very _French_.

 _Good news_ : he's a guy. There are three guys and three girls. _Bad news_ : this dance class is not over.

Naturally, Laurens tends to gravitate toward the only other male student, and his disposition is certainly open and inviting, leaving Laurens a little less flustered and more relaxed. This new student, whom he quickly learns goes by Gilbert, says, "New to here, are you?"

"Yes. I'm... I guess you could say I'm more of a visual arts student. Not a performer."

Gilbert just laughs at that, and it's not mocking; just a laugh. And John quickly decides he very much likes him and is going to stick with him to get him through this. "No, really," he manages, "I'm not a dancer."

" _Pah._ You don't need to be good at something to enjoy it."

"To enjoy something, I need to not be _embarrassing_ myself consistently."

He had been serious, but Gilbert just laughs again. Maybe it’s just the language barrier. His lips part to say something else, but he is cut off by the conversation on the other side of the room. Surrounded by women, the red-head transforms into a completely different person. A _flirty_ one.

"Didn't you just come from Broadway Jazz?"

"Yes," he answers with a coy smile, sitting down with one leg over his knee.

"Did Miss Schuyler make you do splits for ten minutes? She did that to us the other day! But we also got to sing _Rent_ to make up for it, so that was nice." It’s one of the girls, whom, once again, he could not place a name to. _Miss Schuyler is the Broadway Jazz teacher._ He has to remember that.

"Yes. And it's a miracle that my legs are still working. I'm half-dead." He has a subtle accent—one John can’t place. Half-listening and slightly intrigued by their conversation, he lets his eyes wander over to him. "This is my last class. Now quit talking and stretch or I'll make you do straddles against the wall."

Just the implication of "straddles against the wall" was enough to make the inside of his thighs burn.

He goes back to scribbling, and after some more small talk with Gilbert he learns his name is Alexander and he’s twenty-one—but he should be able to call him by his first name because John is older than him by a year. He refuses to refer to someone younger than him as a higher title than him. He feels like he should be stretching, too, but he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by lacking the ability to touch his toes; an ability which, by the way, everyone else seems to have—including Gilbert. He’s sure to get in trouble for this (and be relocated to the wall where he will have to suffer doing straddles for five minutes), and he’s not sure if being isolated and called out is more embarrassing than not being able to do a simple stretch.

Quickly, he tries to reach for his toes and he learns he is very inflexible. _I.e_ , a wooden board could probably bend more than him. Gilbert sees this and smiles. “ _Wow_. You weren’t kidding, were you?”

The class started out not as _abysmally_ as John had thought it would’ve been. In fact, the very class itself was basic and John prided in not making himself look like a fool trying the exercises. Some of them were _so_ basic John wondered how they were even relevant _at all._ But Alexander assured them that it would all come together within the next few months (and John laughed, because he was not going to stick around for this) and to just do as he told them.

“Okay, kiddos—“ Alexander starts.

“I’m a year older than you,” inputs John.

“Okay… kiddos and _John._ Line up. And walk,” Alexander tells _him_ specifically, and points to the opposite end of the room from where he’s standing with his phone. That’s where he gets all his music from for them to dance to, apparently.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said walk. _You know_. I want to see a pedestrian walk.”   

“You mean I have to go first?” he asks in exasperation.

“The oldest have the privilege of always being first.” His voice falls into a delicate, caustic cadence.

John looks to Gilbert for answers. Gilbert shrugs. John wonders if this is all one big joke. But, upon looking at him once again, he sees Alexander is completely serious, looking at him with one neatly sculpted eyebrow arched.

“Okay…”

He starts off in a brisk walk only for Alexander to stop him halfway.

“ _No no_. Too fast.”

“That’s how I—“

“You walk that fast? And start with your _right_ foot.”

 _A quick fact_ : resistance against Alexander is futile.

“Hold on, hold on. Slow down. This is too fast. I don’t understand this,” John says warily, raising his hands up. “What’s the point of this?” _Join us on this episode of: Embarrass the Shit Out of John_.

“I expected that,” he replies. “Do you dance?”

Yes, the experienced dancer is asking the one with absolutely _no_ rhythm at all or any idea what the hell a _tendu_ is if he is a _dancer._ He sighs, bites back a sarcastic retort, and answers with a steadfast _no._

“Okay… that makes things a little more complicated. When you dance, especially to a song, your body has to instinctively move to the rhythm. While _walking_ seems a little… dumb, for lack of a better term, it’s to help you seek out the rhythm and move _to_ it. In ballet and jazz, it’s kind of straightforward and it comes easy… in my opinion, anyway. This class, however, is more modern. You never really stop moving. Especially when we do floor work. Rhythm is important. Without it, everything falls apart. If you can’t even walk to a simple beat, how are you going to _dance_ to it?”

 _This man_ , John notes, _is also very prolix._ “Makes sense,” he answers with a false confidence. _Let’s just get this over with._

Alexander eyes him with a scrutinizing stare, but crosses his arms and presses his lips together. “Then go.”

Interpreting it as a challenge, John strides across the floor and tries to place his feet calmly and to the beat, and when he reaches the other side of the room, Alexander is smiling.

“You’re so stiff. You look like you have a stick up your ass. Remember: _pedestrian._ Just relax.”

Even though he’s irritated and hating this class, he can’t help but be naturally amused by his charm, and though he tries to suppress his smile, it tugs at his lips anyway. He returns to the end of the line where Gilbert stands, eagerly rocking on the balls of his feet like he just can’t keep still.

“What are you so excited about?” John inquires. Gilbert smiles at him, and it’s positively dazzling; he can’t help but return it.

“I want to go.” He gestures to the front of the line.

“You should’ve said you were older. He’ll let you go first then. You can have my turn next time.”

Gilbert clasps his hands together and his smile only grows.

_Cute._

“I feel like I recognize you from somewhere,” says John after a moment of watching the other dancers.

Gilbert looks at him inquisitively.

He rakes through his memory for any recollection of his face; he’s not sure _where,_ but he knows he’s seen it before. His mind immediately leads him to the place where he works... a diner plopped in the center of the main drag, looking too modern in it’s ‘20’s style compared to the colonial buildings around it. Suddenly, it clicks.

“You come around to _The Combahee_ a lot?”

“Yes! I enjoy going there after work,” Gilbert exclaims. “Very cozy place. It’s nice to go there and then go to the library or walk home.”

What he has them do next is relatively the same; except he must walk in _plie_ , and following that, _grand battements_ across the floor (in which John is positive that he pulled a muscle in his thigh.) He can’t nudge his leg higher than his waist which is awfully embarrassing, when you take into account the elegance and flexibility of his other classmates, and John, once again, is reduced to feeling small and inadequate. Watching Alexander make clean, neat arcs back and forth, high in the air with his legs made him burn with jealousy and shame.

As an added _bonus_ , it didn't really help that he felt like an uncoordinated, six year old girl. Sometimes he would catch Alexander grinning, and he set his jaw and persisted, and he wishes he could get him to go fencing— _yes, we'll see who's the one laughing then._ By the end of class it had come as a formidable challenge to him; he may not stay here long, but he’s going to be damned if Alexander would look at him like some amusing, toddling child.

In other words, by the end of class, he is sweaty and frustrated and cursing all things dance—he's pretty sure he's going to ache so badly in the morning that he won't be able to walk _at all_.

Sort of half-waddling and half-walking to get his stuff, he gathers everything back together in one pile and systematically sorts and puts everything away. Already his mind is off the class and his essay seems to be writing itself in his mind, and he wants to write down his ideas before they fade away and become just out of reach. He's so engrossed that he fails to notice Gilbert hovering behind him, peering over his shoulder, and when he turns around, he flinches when he comes face to face with the other.

"What did you think?" he inquires, seeming very, very concerned and eager to find out his opinion and insouciant to the fact he just startled him.

"Um..." Gilbert looks so hopeful, that John just tosses everything back into his bag half-heartedly and throws on a smile. "It was... interesting." It’s nice he has made a fast friend out of the entire thing, though.

That _is_ the right word, because Gilbert brightens up like a clear sky on a sunny day, and switches out his contemporary shoes for regular ones. He stands there uncertainly for a moment as the other pulls out his phone and pauses, then his thumbs start rhythmically tapping away on his screen.

Eventually he just mumbles a “ _see you next week_ ” and slips out of the building as inconspicuously as possible. He was never good with goodbyes.


	2. Pirouette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pirouette: a turn, with one leg held in passe, rising into demi-pointe or pointe. they typically turn outwards to the direction of the leg.
> 
> sorry this chapter took forever to get out. the truth is i'm self-conscious as all hell about my writing.

When John was five, he discovered that he had a newfound love for art and natural sciences. It started out when he noticed a turtle native to South Carolina ambling lazily across the road, and his mother told him that it was a snapping turtle. Later that night, he was very interested in this snapping turtle and why it was called that, and as a result, he drew a picture of it and nervously presented it to his mother. She was so proud of him that day that she took his drawing and placed it safely inside her dresser so she could remember it, and, each day following, she encouraged him to read something to learn something new and then report back to her at the end of the night with whatever new trivia he learned. It could be about anything he wanted.

Of course, since John’s interests composed of art and science, he was eager to report to her things of that nature. Sometimes he even taught her new things, and she would feign ignorance, which John was too naïve to catch on at that age. His father, Henry, cautioned her against this; he feared it would bestow upon John a sense of inflated superiority, but if anything, it just made John less hesitant to learn and read. He started to draw everyday things he’d seen—trees, flowers, plants, animals, and his mother received these drawings with words disgorging encouragement and support until one day she took him out into her expansive gardens in their backyard.

It became a little activity for them: when John came home from school, if he did all his homework and did his chores (which, for a little kid like him, mainly just composed of putting everything away and sweeping the floor,) she would take him out and teach him about gardening and how to take care of certain plants. He added those plants to his growing sketchbook, and, if he was feeling daring, he colored them in and even stayed inside the lines.

When John wanted to achieve something, he couldn’t _just_ achieve it. He had to go extra. He had to meet the expectations and then go _beyond_ that.

His mother always encouraged him but was careful to let him know that failure was part of the learning process. Failure doesn’t mean that he is any lesser of a person or that that specific failure defines him. No, what defines you is your _reaction_ to that failure. She told him this every morning as he stared at himself in the mirror as she cut his hair and dressed him for school. Like any other child that was spoiled, he grew accustomed to her presence and comforting guidance and began to take it for granted; he mumbled his displeasure when she straightened out his coat and sent him off with multiple kisses and “I love you”’s while he embarrassingly trudged off to board his school bus. He would wipe his cheek when she wasn’t looking because she gave a lot of wet kisses, and it wasn’t borne out of malice or contempt, but just that boyish independence that accompanied any growing kid: “ _Mooooom_ , you’re embarrassing me.”

As the years wore on, John practiced his art more and more, and with his age came more experience, and his mother was delighted to witness his improvements as his drawings turned from childish cartoons to more realistic depictions of plants and animals. Of course, his favorite thing to doodle was little snapping turtles sauntering across the top of his algebra worksheets while the teacher droned on and on.

He remembered on her birthday as she roused early as she always did to check her plants; John had tried to catch her when she was still waking up, but, seeing as she was outside, he snatched her birthday gift and quietly stole away from the back door and into the gardens. The cold ground seeped into the soles of his feet and he shivered as he hugged his jacket closer to him, and he spotted his mother’s hunched form over _Achillea millefolium_ , South Carolina natives, and, realizing he may frighten her, he murmured a quiet greeting and hid his painting behind his back. A futile effort; she straightened and took off her gloves and wiped the dirt from her hands. Her belly was wide as she borne his soon-to-be younger sister, and she brushed stray strands of her chestnut hair off her sweaty forehead.

“It’s a Sunday, John. What are you doing up so early?”

Shy, he stared down at his bare feet, scrupulous to avoid stepping on any plants as he curled his toes. The sky was still dark, save for the rosy fingers of dawn in the distance, promising the rising sun that would chase away the early spring chill. Something about that morning painted a particularly poetic picture—the broad strokes of the night sky, punctuated by the bright _Sirius_ and Earth’s sister planet, as well as Mercury settling on the horizon. “I just wanted to say happy birthday.” He approached her and smiled. “I’ve been working on this all year for you.”

John divulged his painting on an eighteen by twenty-four canvas, concealed in a bag to protect it and with the stereotypical purple bow to match (purple had been his mother’s favorite color.) She remembered the way her eyes lit up as she placed her gloves on the ground and peeled back the covering to look at it; their favorite spot when they used to take walks when he was smaller. An overview of the Combahee River, the water reflecting the branches over the water, the dirt accentuated by textured brush strokes and daubs, and the overhanging night sky above. Down the river was shrouded in fog, but in a way that looked like it was inviting the viewer in rather than looking dangerous. And, to top it off, the last of his young, sixteen year old savings pouring into the delicate golden frame around it.

He’ll never forget what she said: “Oh, my God… this is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me.”

Which meant a lot to him; a small, amateur artist who dedicated hours upon hours of still life and color theory for this single moment—for his mother to see everything she had ever given him come together. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. And if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t love science and art as much as I do… I have a lot of things to be grateful for because of you, and I know I don’t show it much, but…” His toes scrape the dirt as he bows his head.

She opened her arm and brought him in for an embrace, and he tucked his face into her neck as she held the painting at an arm’s distance and admired it. “I’m going to hang it up as soon as I can.” He wrapped his arms around her stomach, cautious not to hurt her, and a tiny smile spread across his face.

“I was gonna make breakfast for you too, but…” He reluctantly parted from her arms and laughed. “I like our house and I don’t want to burn it down.”

“That’s another thing we really need to work on,” she answered.

Later that afternoon, when his father sent him into his parents’ bedroom to fetch something, the painting was the first thing that had arrested his attention; it hung proudly on display on the wall opposite to the window. His smile didn't dim for weeks.

John never understood until he was much older why she was so persistent on instilling that knowledge into him, and it was only when he was seventeen after a specific incident of his father yelling at him and meticulously picking apart an essay he had written for school did he realize that his father was the very definition of a perfectionist. Perhaps she had worried that those habits would wear off on John, but by then it was already too late; his mother had been dead for a year after giving birth to her last daughter.

▆▆▆

 The days following up to his next class are rather uneventful.

Most of them include him dragging himself through his daily routines; getting up, going to class if he has class that day, going to work, going to the library, studying, and then retiring to bed at around ten or eleven. By the end of his day, he can’t help but feel exhausted. To his delight, the aching he woke up with the day after his class (which was a Wednesday) was tolerable and it was easy to rein in his pain; he prides in having a high tolerance for it by the way. When you come home every day from fencing practice with bruises lining your arms and callouses forming along the base of your fingers, and the part of his palm where the handle molded neatly into the bend of your hand, you don’t really _notice_ pain. It’s something that’s just background noise to him now.

However, aside from all that, his desire for utmost perfection is impeding on his essay, and for most of the time when he has free time to work on it, he finds himself staring at a blank document with a blinking cursor for hours, the correct phrasing just _failing_ to manifest itself into words. He knows what he wants to say, and he can _say_ it, but he can’t say it as eloquently as he would like. That _irritates_ him. John is _renowned_ for being on top of his assignments. He has all the prerequisites completed; thorough research, sourced down to the letter. Is he all _written out_?

It’s due in a week and a half, and John has not even his introduction completed. Not even a nice, solid outline. He’s just _blank._ This is something he’s passionate about! How can he run out of creativity _now_?

To be honest, the idea of turning in an assignment that was not a good embodiment of his writing abilities disgusts him. No, it has to be _perfect._ It has to read like a published novel. He wants to wow his professor—he wants to be the top of the class. Which, he realizes at some points, is an absolutely ridiculous expectation, as no one can achieve perfection all the time… if at all. But that cogent reasoning does not exist to John. Anything below perfection is labeled as an immediate _failure,_ and failure is a pure _umbrage_ to the Laurens’ family name. Which is why he hates dancing, because he is not good at it, and in some twisted way, still likes fencing because he can beat _anyone_ at it. Even if the idea of a foil makes him nauseated and dizzy.

He digresses.

To his dismay, all throughout the week, he fails to notice Gilbert making his routine visits, which is disappointing, to say the least. Perhaps he’s just busy, but he was looking forward to getting to know him more, and while he scribbled down orders and coasted from table to table, he eagerly looked to the door whenever someone else entered. By the weekend, he was completely worn out and wanted to spend time on things he _enjoyed,_ like reading or creative writing, but the idea of getting up and putting energy into something was just too much for him to handle at that moment, so he ended up sleeping all afternoon, and even then, he couldn’t really escape his worries; they’re all playing out in his dreams.

Right. The moment he entered high school he realized that he wasn’t going to have time for things he enjoyed anymore.

On Saturday, he gets a shower, dresses for work, laments over the fact he forgot to go shopping and so as a result he has no milk for his cereal, he trudges off to his waiting job. To be honest, it's not a job little him thought he'd be stuck with—yet when he moved out by himself (and yes, he admittedly did run off most of his father's funds,) he realized it was necessary. His coworkers are amicable and the hours aren't too dreadful, but dealing with mouthy and rude customers only strengthened his hate for the obvious classism running rampant in America; ironic, considering his father is the exact same way and even John himself falls in the more privileged class.

John is always early—his mother emphasized punctuality, and he liked to live up to her name—and because he's early all the time, he's developed an affinity to the crisp morning air and making small talk with the manager and helping him clean up around the restaurant in preparation for the influx of morning customers. It's advantageous being in the center of the town where the activity was at its highest.

Because it's a Saturday, parents arrive with their children—a difference from the weekly hours where it was mainly just older citizens. And so, straight from the get go, John is assaulted with names and tables and running back and forth from the kitchen to put in orders and deliver food. After twelve, the wave of customers starts to slow down, and John recognizes an older figure waiting to be waited on that he had been assigned to, and putting down a tray, he coasts over to him delightfully.

The older man puts down his menu gracefully and inclines his head to look up at him. "Good afternoon. I thought you didn't work weekends?" John has to strain himself to hear him amongst the scraping of utensils on the plates and glasses _clinking_ onto tables and muted, idle chatter.

"Well... I decided to. I've been... distracted lately."

George stopped by often at his restaurant—he was reserved, quiet, and demonstrated the extremest of polite manners; John could not imagine him ever getting angry, but it was rumored that it was _explosive_. As a result of these rumors, he's always been a bit on the shy side around him, and maybe his father's influence can be attributed to that, too. Still, over the months he's been working here, he's developed a kind rapport with him; what started out as formal and required "hello"'s soon blossomed into "how are you?" and "how was your day?"

(Maybe it's a little selfish of him, but George also left hearty tips.)

Yet he always kept their dynamic in mind, and George seemed to as well; they could make small talk for hours, he's sure, but the older man exhibited a sense of pride in his mellow brown eyes, and John did not want to infringe upon that. Therefore, their conversations were confined to impersonal happenings in their daily lives.

"Work can be good for you, but too much of it becomes burdensome after a while," he adds. For some reason, John can't help but smile. In that moment, it sounds just like something his mother would say, and that's what he needs.

"I know. But the extra money can't hurt," John muses, and they both share a quiet chuckle, but Washington's is more mellow than his. "I take it'll be the usual?"

"I _am_ a man of routine," he says, and one ought to think he'd smile when he'd say that, but he doesn't.

His spirits are lifted after spending some time talking to George, and after clearing out some other customers he returns and sits on the opposite booth from him and they make small chatter for a couple of minutes about their week, and John divulges that he had reluctantly picked up a dancing class.

“I never thought of you as a dancer,” George says.

“Me too. I still don’t, but...” He absently taps the table with his palm and then leans back in the seat. “It’s not what I expected—let’s just put it that way. I don’t like to quit but I don’t like it.”

“Of course. But you shouldn’t view it as a setback in your life. What may be in your mind a setback could possibly be a strength in disguise,” he answers quietly but assertively. “Don’t judge it off of one experience.”

John is about to say something else, but he pauses and thinks for a moment. Suddenly, with an inquisitive look, he says, “Why’s that?”

“Good things can come out of it,” he elaborates, eyebrows knotting together. “Really, dancing is--”

His inquisitive look transforming into a realization, he smiles and says, “I never took you for a _dancer_ , either.”

The older looks like he’s about to return the smile, but he doesn’t. “I’m not really a _dancer_ ; I suppose I can be somewhat decent if the situation calls for it—”

“Is that your big secret? What do you dance? Let me guess–is it something I wouldn’t expect?” he asks, trying to restrain himself, but getting a little too overzealous. “Jazz? Hip-hop?” He inhales and straightens. “ _Wait_. I know. You’re a _tap_ dancer.”

Washington clears his throat to silence him. “You would expect it.”

 _So much for imagining George doing hip-hop and head spins_. The idea makes him stifle a laugh.

“No, you can tell me,” Laurens presses, quieting his voice. “Seriously. It’ll motivate me.”

If George had been planning to answer, he doesn’t get the chance; John sighs and the older man silently brings his cup of tea up to his mouth and sips it, eyes fixated on the table as John parts with him to receive another customer. He’ll weasel the answer out of him eventually; if Washington can dance, then he can too. How hard can it be?!

Is he the only person in this godforsaken town that doesn’t _dance_?!

Already feeling oddly amicable (if a little slighted,) his spirits are further lifted by a run-in with Gilbert, who greets him with a smile as bright as the sun as he had earlier in the week and raises his hand in a wave. His strawberry blond hair is closely cut around his head—or at least, it used to be. It’s outgrown and long overdue for a haircut; tufts and strands curl around his ears and along the back of his neck. It’s strange to see him wearing typical clothes, considering his first impression of him was in, well... tights.

“You _do_ work here!” Gilbert exclaims. His eyes excitedly skitter over to where John had been prior, and he leans in and says, “Wait, were you—was that Mister Washington?”

Suddenly filled with awe, he stares at the back of the man, slack-jawed.

“Uh, yeah, he comes here often...” John comments, turning to look at him. “Why?”

“No reason—” Gilbert interrupts abruptly, and raises up and down on his toes almost restlessly. John eyes him suspiciously. “Okay, maybe—could you...” His fingers nervously fiddle with the zipper on his jacket. “Mention my name possibly—"

“Why? Does he know you?” John glances at his back. He’s sipping his tea again and reading something, ignorant to their conversation.

Gilbert’s shoulders raise in a shrug, looking flustered. “He teaches ballroom dancing. I take that class and I’m really bad at it so--”

“Oh? _Oh_.” Well, he _did_ say that it wasn’t a surprise. Still, he doesn’t have time to think about that. “I still don’t really understand what I’m supposed to be accomplishing here. If you want help, you should _ask_ him, you know... that’s not really my place--”

“I suppose.” He rubs the back of his neck as John reaches for a menu and leads him to an empty table. “So, if you’re my friend and I know you, can you hook me up with a discount maybe?”

John clicks his pen and gives him a knowing look as Gilbert flashes him his puppy dog eyes. “Please. I work here and _I_ don’t even get a discount, _and_ I’m on the manager’s good side.”

“It was worth a try.”

Laurens chuckles. “Am I to believe that you’re just using me to get free food?”

“No—” Gilbert exclaims.

“That’s—“

“—free food _and_ fast seating,” he finishes.

“ _Hey_. I’ll spit in your food.” He points his pen threateningly at him. “And then I’ll revoke your fast seating privilege.”

“Aww.”

As much as he would like to squander his entire shift talking to and joking with Gilbert, he cannot; his shift is over in an hour, anyway. Normally he would offer his time for over time, but he can’t today. The essay looms over his mind like a fog on a humid morning.

With a hasty goodbye to George and a collection of his hearty tip, he ties up his shift with Gilbert’s departure, and looks himself over in the window. _I should get a haircut._ His hair is getting too long, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to; his hair has always been longer than average ever since he was a little boy. He was made fun of for it sometimes...

John pulls it back into a loose ponytail. _Maybe later._ For now, he has other work to do.

▆▆▆

Today he is early _on purpose;_ he wants to see Gilbert _and_ he wants the opportunity to work (read: fret) over his essay and try to churn out at least a paragraph. No matter how many times he attempts to dissuade his inner critic’s fastidious criticisms of every sentence he writes, it _persists_. Now not only is he worrying about the essay not being good enough, he’s worrying about not getting it _done_ in time and failing it. Slouching on the seat, he buries his face into his hands and alleviates his frustration through one loud, long exhale.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The voice startles him out of his miserable stupor, and his hands fall from his face onto his keyboard with a disquiet _slap_. It’s not French enough to sound like Gilbert, and to be honest, though he hasn’t known him long, he is actually looking forward to him coming. He doesn’t know when Alexander suddenly decided to make his appearance and _when_ he had, but he deliberately avoids his gaze and stares at the blank document in front of him. “Nothing,” he dismisses casually—not out of contempt for Alexander, but because he doesn’t want to voice the fact that he can’t write a goddamned essay and he doesn’t feel comfortable telling a stranger about his troubles. He should type something to convince him that everything is just fine.

Too bad, because he can’t think of anything to write.  

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” he says airily as he sits down on the bench opposite to him. Even though he’s not looking at him, he can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “Is it because of _my_ class?”

“No, but your class is stressful for me,” Laurens says solemnly.

“Don’t worry. By the end of the year you’ll be dancing with the grace and elegance of an experienced ballerina. You’ll be the _talk_ of the town and the envy of everyone else.”

“For some reason, I don’t find that thought very comforting,” says John dryly. Mainly because if he becomes the talk of the town, then his father will find out, and at this point in his life, there are a _lot_ of things his father does not know and he should never know. Finally raising his head to meet his eyes, he straightens and frowns. In the right light, they shine violet. Why does he have to be funny _and_ attractive?

 _You’re not really helping my case here, Alexander_.

“You must be _really_ fun at parties. Anyway, I think you’ll turn out a lot better than you think, you know.”

John shakes his head and returns to the topic at hand. “You saw me last week. Why do you put so much faith in me? I’m not even a _dancer._ ”

“Because…--Jay? Joseph? Jack?”

“John.”

“Because, _John,_ the people who say they’re not good dancers end up being the best ones,” he replies as if it’s obvious, looking exasperated. “Besides, I just have a feeling about it.” 

“I don’t believe you,” he says.

“Just look at me.” His face lights up in an arrogant grin--not the type bestowed upon one at birth. A lot of people must have told him he is the best; that’s the kind of cockiness that is _learned_. Alexander is very easy to read, which makes him suspicious right off the bat, and he eyes him uncertainly for a few moments before returning his attention to more concerning matters. Annoyed he lost he interest, he adds, “And Gilbert.”

 _He doesn’t like to be ignored._ Although, that interests him. From what he saw last time, Gilbert seems to be very experienced. Whatever typing he is doing ceases. “Oh, really? Are you two friends?”

“Not really. Don’t know him that well. I remember the first time he came here--a long time ago, but that doesn’t matter--we were in the same class, though. And damn, I’d never seen someone so clumsy with their feet. He was just… _everywhere._ And then just when he was getting the hang of it, he tripped over his own feet and fell flat on his face right in front of this girl he had a crush on. Everyone laughed at him,” he recollects, trying to console him, “he wanted to quit.”

“So… you’re saying I have to fall on my face, be the laughing stock of the entire dancing school, and then I’ll get the motivation to become better?”

“You’re a quick learner,” he returns sarcastically. “ _No_ , what I’m saying is that there’s a beginner stage for _everyone_. It’s not like I crawled out of the womb executing _perfect_ pirouettes. It takes dedication. And,” he says, “You have to _want_ to get better.”

John feels like that’s a subtle jab at his lack of desire to actually want to dance, and he sighs, turns away, and shuffles through his index cards to give his hands something to do. There’s silence for a moment, and John _knows_ Alexander is staring at him very intensely. This is a situation he wishes he had had the foresight to avoid.

“Do you want to be here?” he suddenly asks very seriously, leaning forward so his elbows are resting on his knees.

Feeling cornered, John struggles for a reply; he’s caught between lying and saying “yes” or telling the truth and saying “no.” He knows his father would spit on him if he knew he was “wasting” his money on things like this, and perhaps that is what is preventing him from trying to enjoy it in the first place. “I wanted to try it out. Like I said, I’m not a dancer.”

“I can get you to like it,” Alexander says firmly. “Just give me a month. Come on. Just four more classes, and then you can tell me with full confidence that you are not a dancer and I won’t push about it again.” 

“Fine,” he agrees, more to get Alexander to stop pressuring him than anything else. It seems that when he wants something he will stop at nothing to get it. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, and the color drains from his fingers as he grips his papers in his hands.

“Great,” he says absently, eager to dissuade the topic, then with a pointed glance to his hands, asks, “Are you writing something? Is that what has you so miserable?”

“Yes,” he exhales, putting his fingers to his temples. “And it’s due in a week and a half and I have nothing. Usually writing comes naturally to me, but this time, whatever I write is just… it doesn’t sound _right_.”

“So it’s a paper, then.” He suddenly seems disinterested; almost _disappointed._ “What’s it about?”

“Classism in America.” Leaning forward, his eyes gleam as he prepares to fire a bunch of different arguments off at him; this is a topic he has been passionate about since his youth, and everyone tuned a deaf ear to him whenever he tried to speak about it. So John spent a majority of his childhood screaming at people who never wanted to listen, who would put their hands over their ears and blind their reality with their fantasies, who were so _adamant_ about their viewpoints that they would not even consider change. When one looks at his childhood from that perspective, it suddenly makes sense why he holds such pessimistic and abysmal views about humanity. To him, everything is absolutely _hopeless_ , but if he can educate just _one_ person, if he can make one person at least _question_ the prejudices they’ve held for years… at least he’ll know that this uphill battle he is fighting has not been in vain.

“Oh.” There’s _so_ many unsaid things within that ‘oh’ that it makes John _crazy_. Disinterest, shock, or curiosity? “I write too, so I understand where you’re coming from, at least.

“But,” he says suddenly, “When I can’t write, I just ignore everything my mind tells me and put the words down. You can _always_ go back and revise it; make it sound stronger, more solid. Change words and switch phrases around. You just have to get your main idea down and then work from there.” He pauses and grins. “It’s like dancing. When you’re not thinking and just feeling it out, that’s when it’s your greatest. That’s where most of my choreography comes from, anyway. It helps if it’s something you’re passionate about. And, if in the end, you still don’t get a good essay out of it, then that’s how it is. You accept it and try better next time.”

He _is_ a writer. Makes sense why he’s so _verbose_ _._ Turning his head down to his blank screen, he contemplates this piece of advice from a stranger younger than him that he barely knows. His mind takes him back to the first time he saw him; leaning against the wall, pen moving furiously, writing like he may not see the end of today. In that moment, his advice takes him back to his mother’s scissors snipping close to his ears, giving a long speech about the importance of failing and getting back up from your defeats, and his heart sinks sadly in his chest.

"In my personal opinion, a failure is knowing I tried it and slid by—"

“I _am_ passionate about this,” John bites back defensively. He wants to say that he dedicates most of his time to fighting against this inequality; if he’s not studying or doing schoolwork or working, then he’s publishing some article in the local newspaper about it under an alias or protesting. “From when I was a boy, actually.” He scoffs, remembering his father shutting down any of his attempts to talk about politics. No, he was too _young_ and _inexperienced_ to understand.

Alexander has that expectant look like he wants to say more, but ultimately decides against it and says instead, “It’s a big problem that people don’t want to address. They’re more than _glad_ to believe it’s gone…” The way he says it suggests that there’s something more _personal_ to it from the bitterness in his voice, but John doesn’t press, feeling that the other will get defensive if he does.

“Anyway,” he adds dismissively, glancing briefly at the time, “ _I_ have to get ready for your class. Good luck, _John_.”

When he leaves, the silence settles heavily in the room, aside from the occasional thuds and stereotypical piano music that can be heard from the other dancers who were having class right now. He ponders his advice and wonders if he can even silence his inner critic long enough to actually write one sentence. How does one _write_ without _thinking_? The notion is absolutely absurd. John is _overzealous_ when it comes to holding his writing to a critical standard. He wishes he would’ve asked Alexander to elaborate on how he does it. He’s just typed the first sentence when his phone vibrates, and he pulls out his phone to silence it, then sets it down carefully and takes a deep breath to quell his rising anxiety.

Today’s class is similar to last week’s, except for one jarring difference: "To the bars!"

John isn't really sure what kind of torture Alexander has in his mind for this week, but everyone else seems to know, and they all collectively groan. Which means if it's bad for them, then it's going to be _hell_ for him.

"Since there's an odd number of students, I'll just have to be _John's_ partner."

This man is _unreal_.

He eyes Gilbert with a look that can only be described as "save me." Gilbert presses a finger to his lips to stifle his giggle before he faces the bar and puts his leg all the way up, and then folds in half neatly so his nose is touching his knee.

"Your turn," Alexander says.

"That's cheating. He's _French_." He points to Gilbert.

"Leg _up_."

John throws him a look of utter despair and gingerly lifts his leg so his heel is resting on the top bar (which, when compared to his height, comes up to about his forearm) and oh my god he's in so much pain he can't even describe it. It's like he's in gym class again, doing fitness tests in front of everyone and just because he can only get a forty or fifty on the pacer test and he doesn't enjoy football as much as he _should_ —

"I don't think I've ever seen someone as tense as you. Man, is _relaxation_ even a _word_ in your vocabulary?"

"Because it _hurts._ " And because of what he had just been thinking about. And _because_ , if for some reason you _still_ didn't know, his hamstring feels like it's going to snap in half. But now that he thinks about it—no, relaxation is not in his vocabulary.

"First... straighten your spine, drop your hip, turn out your foot–" If he was worried about not being able to do those things, Alexander roughly positions his hips and somehow makes this position ten times more painful than before, which is impossible because John is almost positive that he's going to fall over and die any second. And if that isn't enough, he has to deal with the fact that he _really_ likes his hands on his hips. His teeth sinking into his lip, he's red in the face as he looks to see Alexander say,

"See! Told you you could do it."

"Is your degree in sadism or what?" His voice cracks. And he is sweating. _A lot_.

"Mm, working on one for law," Alexander replies cheerfully, making this stretching exercise look painfully easy.

"Oh. So you're a masochist instead. My bad," John replies, maybe a little bitter that Alexander could be so perfect in _everything_. Is there anything he _can't_ do? He can dance well, is flexible, a writer, and he's even studying law—

"Just practice. It's not going to come easy for you. And I can't stress this enough: _relax_. Also, breathe. Kind of important."

"Is it normal to not feel anything in your ankle?"

Alexander snorts. "Switch." When John's leg falls to the ground with a loud _thud_ , he adds, "Elegant."

John sniffs. "Be quiet." This time, vying for perfection, he remembers what Alexander had said to him a few minutes before and tries to get it just right, but _maybe_ he lets his hip fall intentionally so Alexander will fix it again. The other narrows his eyes and smiles, as if realizing his intentions, though he doesn't say anything and fixes it again.

"You know, if you're really concerned about not doing well, I can always teach you separately," Alexander says helpfully, nudging his standing foot so it is turned out into first position.

John doesn't want to think about what would happen if he was in a room alone with Alexander.

"I can _do_ it. I don't need _extra help_ ," he spits through gritted teeth, and to his body's protest, inches closer to the bar and now he's _really_ regretting that. He never needed a tutor—not for _fencing_ , not for _art_ , not for _writing_ and especially not for _school_. There's no way he is gonna start now. Frankly, he's insulted Alexander even offered in the first place. “Besides, I think I’d kill myself if I had to dance more than once a week. I ached for three days after your last class.”

"You've got drive, I'll give you that," he says admirably. "But I'm interested in seeing how you're going to cope with the rest of my class after you've torn your hamstring. Oh, and point your toes. Flexed feet don’t look nice on stage.” He pauses. “Unless I tell you to flex them. _That’s_ how you point your toes? Are you joking? I want your entire leg to feel it.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’re not really making me want to stay.”

“Once you see it all come together, you will be amazed. And then you’ll say, ‘wow, that Alexander was a real genius!’”

“I’m sure that’s _exactly_ what I’ll think.” He lowers his leg painfully and winces, though, admittedly, his muscles feel a lot looser. Alexander follows suit and then John gravitates towards Gilbert again, watching him cover his yawn with his forearm.

“He really is something,” John mumbles.

“He’s unique!” Gilbert adds cheerfully. “I’d be grateful if I were you... the rest of the teachers are nightmares. Especially that Thomas character. Though, he did help me get better...”

John opens his mouth to comment on what Alexander told him earlier, but remembering that he may not want him to know, he refrains. “What? Is he mean?”

“Not mean. Just, er... strict. He’d make me do butterfly stretches and forced my knees onto the floor with his heels. Other than that, he’s a very mellow fellow. Most of the time I was straining to hear him.” Gilbert makes the entire ordeal sound like a funny memory, insouciant to John’s grimace. “He and Alexander have some feud going on that I don’t really understand. I should be grateful. Now I can do splits. You, however...”

“Told you: visual arts.”

Gilbert laughs. “Right. You’re just a mess.”

“Wait til you see me do _pirouettes_. I’ve made good acquaintance with the floor already.”

“He’s really good at them.” Gilbert nods towards Alexander, who is busy giving another student the inevitable _point your toes_ lecture. “He’ll make you a professional. We’re probably not going to do those yet, though.” He has a habit of inclining his head to the side when he talks, almost looking inquisitive. “There’s a lot of preparation that goes into them. I’ve been practicing for years and I still can’t do more than four without losing my balance.”

“Wait, wait, if this is a beginner’s class, then why are you taking it? You seem experienced.”

“Because I’ve never done this type of dancing before... so I have to take the intro.” He says it like it’s obvious. “It looked fun—”

“If you two are _done_ , you can join the rest of us or include us in your conversation that’s obviously so important it takes precedence over what I’m saying,” Alexander interrupts, looking nonplussed. Gilbert smiles and raises his hands defensively as an attempted conciliatory gesture and they share a giggle as they join with the other students.

“He doesn’t like to be ignored,” John whispers, and hides his laugh with a forced cough. Gilbert pushes him over.

“You’re probably all wondering why I’m making you do all these exercises,” he begins as John falls into silence, “but I can assure you all there’s a rhyme and a reason.” He takes a deep breath, and John prepares himself for the influx of words they’re probably going to receive.

“This is where we come to the big differences between modern ballet and classical. Ballet is telling a story. Contemporary focuses more on emotions and showing those emotions not just through movement but through facial expressions as well.” Alexander turns on his heel and faces the mirrors. “Can ballet have emotion? Of course. Can contemporary ballet tell a story? It can. But you’ll notice you have more freedom; the song, its meaning, and your dance are all up to interpretation. You take what the song makes you feel... it can be a place, a person, a memory, or a concept, and then you channel it through your movements.

“If I made you all learn a routine and then asked you to perform it individually, I guarantee you there would be differences. Someone may dance slower, hit a move harder, or stop in certain places, all because of the connection they feel with it. Of course, the underlying foundation will remain the same. So today we’re going to learn a small combination and you can learn what this type of dance is all about.”

John swallows nervously. “You’re not going to make us perform individually, will you?” With his inexperience, he’ll basically be following in Gilbert’s footsteps.

“I’ll spare you today, only because you haven’t even begun yet. Anyway... for the more conscious and reserved of you, this isn’t going to be easy,” he says, and John feels like he’s passively singling out him in particular. “But I think you’re more than capable. This song is... a little more hard-hitting, but I think it’s manageable. Oh, and we’re going to have partners for this. So go crazy.”

Everyone scrambles for someone to partner up with—John would hook up with Gilbert but he’s already got another girl and he doesn’t want to seem clingy—and he notices a woman leaning on the bars, black curls fastidiously piled onto a neat bun atop her head; tall and lithe, she has the stance of a natural-born leader. Her eyes lock with his and she breaks from the bars to meet him halfway across the room, as no one seems to be interested in being her partner, either.

“Name’s Angelica Schuyler,” she says, and presents her hand to him, open. She has a bit of a New York twang, something he notices that’s different from the rest of everyone’s accents. He’s taller than her by a few inches, yet he still feels small under her powerful, hypnotizing gaze.

“Hi,” he responds curtly, quietly, shyly staring at her hand before taking it and shaking it. _Schuyler_...? He’s heard that name before. He’s sort of taken aback by her strong grip.

Angelica looks amused by his anxious reaction. “You nervous? Don’t be. You’re gonna be fine, love. I’ll help you out.”

“If I was dancing by myself, I wouldn’t mind so much,” he replies softly, “but I don’t want to embarrass you... or worse.”

“We all gotta start from somewhere, right? It’s alright. Ballet isn’t really my thing either,” she assures him. “I’m more of a musical theater person. If anything, we can complement each other’s suckiness.”

“I don’t even dance.”

“Oh. That _is_ a possible disadvantage.” Angelica’s smile is like Gilbert’s; blinding and comforting, even if it’s slight. John catches Alexander staring at him from the corner of his eye, but he ignores him, shifting his focus onto Angelica’s voice. “Still, we were all beginners at one point, and we wouldn’t be able to be where we are without experienced people to help us. Now let’s tune in to The Wise One and see what he has to say about whatever we’re doing today.”

John snickers. He has made an excellent partner choice—or should he feel privileged that _she_ chose _him_?

It turns out Angelica is a very accommodating partner; upon receiving a really confused look when she said the word _passé_ , she patiently walked him to the bar and explained step by step how it was done. Apparently this was one of the preparation steps for a _pirouette_ , although a _passé_ in contemporary was more akin to a _jazz_ one where the knee wasn’t turned out but rather parallel with the other leg. As she walked him through the moves (as Alexander had explained it too fast for him to catch on) and building up their speed, it all came together, and although it was very tiring, looking at himself in the mirror and seeing himself become a semblance of a formidable dancer left a bubble of pride inside him that wouldn’t burst for a while. She surpassed him in grace and rhythm, and notwithstanding the fact he stumbled awkwardly and forgot the moves sometimes, he actually grew to _enjoy_ it.

She would deviate, and it seemed she really enjoyed showing off about how she could perform five _pirouettes_ without falling, and proceeded to show him before she was admonished by Alexander for not paying attention. As soon as he looked away, she induced John into trying one, and he, like Gilbert, fell flat on his face as Alexander remarked sarcastically about the irony. Angelica snickered and helped him up, grabbing him by the wrist as he rubbed at his aching jaw.

“Okay, maybe you’re not ready for that yet, honey. That was a train wreck. A funny train wreck, but still a train wreck nonetheless. You’re lucky I didn’t get that on video, because that would be on the internet faster than you can even wink.”

He can’t help but smile, and his face hurts a little from how he landed, but Angelica’s hands are on her hips and she’s laughing--she’s not mocking him, and for once, he feels perfectly comfortable in this class. _Not being good at something is okay, but I’ll get there._

At the end of class, he’s stopped by Alexander, who has his hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “I think you did really well today.”

John rubs the back of his neck. “I guess. It’s still coming to me.” Suddenly that feeling of comfort vanished.

“Yeah, but you showed a lot of potential. What did you think of Angelica?” he asks, arching his eyebrows.

“She was really great. She helped me through everything.”

“Yeah. She’s pretty, too.” Alexander grins and puts his hands on his hips, bowing his head to stare at the floor.

John is struck by the fact that while yes, he could agree that she was pretty, it only was in the fact that she was nice to look at. Sort of a passing thought. _Oh, she’s pretty_. He should have felt some sort of attraction...

... but he didn’t.

Unable to swallow this bitter pill, he stammers, “Yeah, she is. I have to go. That paper calls.”

“Alright, see you next week. And you’ll get a good grade on that paper, I know it.”

Heart sent fluttering in his chest and ill at ease, he throws his stuff into his bag and runs into Gilbert on the way out, who was busy looking at a poster with a contemplative look and eyebrows knitted together. John had been too preoccupied with staring at an email on his phone to notice. “Oh, I’m sorry!” He tucks his phone away into his jacket pocket and then stares at what Gilbert is looking at as the other brushes his apology off with a forgiving smile. “What’s this all about, then?”

“Oh, just a Halloween party for the little kids. Usually we hold one every year. They love it,” Gilbert replies, and taps his chin. “I don’t know if I should do it this year. Since we’re older, we help out, sort of. Apparently after the age of eighteen you’re too adult to enjoy all the fun things. It’s great. Alexander and I hoard all the leftover candy then have contests to see who can eat the most. It doesn’t end well.”

“Do you celebrate all the holidays?”

“Most of them, yes. My favorites are the winter holidays. They sometimes have a ball, and you can bring a date and dance. And Mister Washington teaches you ballroom dancing if you’re up for it... or if you’re like me, and can’t slow dance for your life. For the littler ones, we just have a party and play games. They get a bit too antsy at an event like that and end up turning it into a disaster.”

That makes John smile. “You play games with the little kids?” He teases.

“Yeah. I may have to pose as a twelve year old this year to get in.” Gilbert looks at him and puts his hands on his hips. “Think I can do it?”

“No. You’re too tall, but you’ve definitely got a baby face for it. Why don’t you just go to the ball? Or is it too _adult_ for you?”

“I am very much adult. I go grocery shopping on my own occasionally,” protests Gilbert, but he can’t be serious for long, and they both snicker. “Just kidding. I’m the one that goes grocery shopping every day because I forget something each time.”

“...That’s why you make a list.”

“What if I forget the list?” Gilbert asks.

“Then you take a picture with your phone before you go, just in case.”

“And if my phone dies?”

A pause. Then, “In that situation, you better have your inventory memorized.”

“Which means that in the end, I didn’t need to make a list at all.” Gilbert concludes, and as John glowers at him, they both dissolve into laughter. When he’s around Gilbert, it’s almost sinful to be unhappy.

The weather is warmer today, with a slight September breeze that attracts all the townies outside their houses; cleaning their cars, washing their windows, or lounging outside with contemporary music blaring from their stereos amidst amicable conversation with neighbors. It makes John feel content and even a little homey (he’s been a little homesick lately,) and as they stand in front of the building to part ways, Gilbert shields his eyes from the sun and says,

“You should think about that party.”

“Maybe. I won’t make any promises... it’s a long way away,” John dismisses. “I’m not... I’m not really a good fit for parties. I’m more the guy who sits at home and works all day. Besides, little kids aren’t... they aren’t my thing.”

“Ah, but breaks are a necessity, or you’ll get all burnt out. And what are you saying? Little kids are cute things. You know, when they _listen_.”

“I’ll think about it. That’s all I can say.”

Seeing as that’s the only answer Gilbert will be able to wriggle out of him, he’s satiated for now. “Okay. But if you ever decide, you should text me and let me know, because then I’ll go too. I don’t want to go alone.” He artfully whips out his phone and looks up at him expectantly. They switch phone numbers and Gilbert wriggles his fingers in a tiny wave, and right before he leaves, he turns around and asks,

“Hey. I’ve always wanted to know... why the restaurant is called _The... Combahee_?” His voice uncertainly shapes the word. “It’s an unusual name.”  
  
John raises his shoulders in a shrug.

“I’ve always wondered that too. It’s where the owner grew up. It’s a river in South Carolina.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just really love angelica schuyler in hamilton. as you can see, i've tried to make it ambiguous as to how the characters look; you could imagine it with the hamilton cast or the original people themselves. since i've never read about angelica schuyler, i always picture her as goldberry now, & with her voice & way of speaking.

**Author's Note:**

> 'plie' means 'bent.' a demi plie is slightly bending your knees so your legs make a diamond shape. 
> 
> 'tendu' quite literally means 'stretched.' it's an extension of the leg, fully straightened with a pointed foot, turned out. your ballet teacher will make you point your foot so hard your ankles will ache like all hell in the morning.
> 
> a grand battement, i.e a great 'beating' or 'beat,' is like a tendu, but you sweep your leg up into the air, foot turned out and pointed. your leg must make a perfect 90 degree angle to be considered a grand battement.


End file.
